


low water

by samarqand



Series: small Makalaurë stories [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnap Dads, kidnap family, seaweed harvesting!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarqand/pseuds/samarqand
Summary: Elrond is gifted with foresight. Elrond has seen how this chapter ends.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: small Makalaurë stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084430
Comments: 25
Kudos: 52





	low water

“You know how this ends,” Maedhros says. 

Elrond raises his head from the sputtering campfire to watch Maedhros materialize from the trees.

He stands, lanky-limbed and ungainly with his new height as goes to take Maedhros’ basket of foraged mushrooms. He is growing tall, as if in defiance of the land's deepening oppression. 

\-- Not nearly tall enough. A glance toward the shoreline at Elros, and he estimates that they might just reach Maglor’s height, with luck. Or perhaps this is it: eye-level with Maedhros’ sternum, craning his neck to meet the other's steel gaze when all others would flee at the sight of him.

But they have meandered, however stumblingly, well past those nights he spent inconsolable and terrified of Maedhros, the small child tremulously waiting for his door to open and the kinslayer's blade to sink him. 

Elrond scrunches his nose at Maedhros in good-natured confusion as he tumbles the sun-colored chanterelle mushrooms into the pot of simmering water. 

“That night, some seasons past,” Maedhros states, and suddenly Elrond understands, “when you slunk into our room cry at the foot of the palliasse.” 

Elrond winces, scratches at his cheek. Maedhros’ expression yields nothing, as if it’s all the same to him. “Your pallor. The way you refused to look at us, though you drew near and held fast.”

“Oh, I don’t — “

“You foresaw our ending.”

Down at the shore, while the tide still languishes low, Maglor is teaching Elros how to harvest seaweed. An intent flick of the knife, slicing at kelp and ruffled sea lettuce; leave the root alone so that it will regrow. Cut these deep grades of green into small samples. This much to flavor a soup. This much to dry and preserve for lean times. 

Maglor gently shears away the muted red fronds of pepper dulse from the rock. He pauses to offer Elros an experimental bite: a smile from Elros then, surprised at the flavor. With a purpose, Elros saws away at his own handful of seaweed.

“And we fall, in the end,” Maedhros confirms.

“I — I cannot say,” Elrond manages through a whorl of apprehension, fumbling to know the pith of his own power. When it reaches for him, unbidden and undesired, it only half-emerges from its murk. “I cannot say,” he slowly attempts, “precisely how what will happen, _will_ happen. I cannot surmise exactly — .” He finds dirt under his nails and drags his fingers uselessly against his robe. 

Sheepish, not ready to see anything approaching disappointment in Maedhros’ stare, he looks toward the water.

Maglor and Elros are crouching over a deep tide pool; the sloughing shorebreak muffles their conversation. Elros jabs his finger at something under the surface and Maglor smilingly makes a remark that sends Elros plunging his knife into the water; he emerges with a limpet. 

And they are both clutching their baskets of seaweed gratefully as they speak to one another over the pool, ignoring the next great wash of seawater that swells around their legs, sweeping them all precarious and off-balance. Still they stay, defiance in their smiles and in their casting about for more seaweed, more shellfish to pry from the rocks. 

Another hour and the sea will begin reclaiming the pools and hoarding their wealth. Another hour and Maglor will comb the salt and wind from his hair, and then Elrond will ask him for help in doing the same. It isn’t that he needs Maglor anymore for this ritual, but that he relishes it now.

Their time together, after all, is nearing the end. Soon, it will be mere marginalia as Elrond shoulders the next chapter in his story, and the next.

Maedhros crouches to stoke at the fire. It spits and hisses when the water bubbles over. Waiting on Elrond, Maedhros remains stolid. Only a dispassionate curiosity ekes from the cracks in his stony countenance. They may as well have been discussing if Maedhros had gathered enough mushrooms for the soup, or ought he hunt down some more now, before they’re all too hungry to wait. Is this enough for two kind and noble boys nearly grown, for two irredeemable princes — 

“Does Maglor know, too?”

Maedhros nods, a remote lowering of his head. He adds then, dryly: “But he’ll seek no answers from you. He likes surprises.”

“And you are sick of them,” Elrond says.

Regarding him through the steam and woodsmoke, Maedhros nods again. They have shared this look over watered wine and companionable silence before, in the late, disarming hours.

They are both haunted. They both recognize this in each other.

“When he and I go forth at last,” Maedhros says, “I think that we do not come back.”

The crying sandpiper’s message travels the coastline, but reaches them too late: the wind growls and the flat grey sky roils darkly. Maedhros leans near to Elrond and umbrellas him with his cloak, just as -- 

The rain explodes over their heads.

Sharp, shocked laughter from the shore: Maglor and Elros hop along the rocks and back down to the sand, covering their heads with their baskets as they dash back to the camp under the trees. 

Maglor, sprinting effortlessly as a dancer upon the sinking sand, slows to keep abreast of Elros. 

Elros’ footfalls thunder over the sheets of rain that sting as they plummet, plummeting like the time they have left together, and the sound joins with Elros’ laughter; he is still laughing with Maglor while the rain gathers in their cloaks —

Elrond laughs, too, a little.

Then he turns to Maedhros while they still have time. “You come back inside his dreams, sometimes.”

Maedhros sits with the words, watching Maglor. 

And then he exhales: the breath punched out of him. Like he has been waiting, chained up to his only fear for so long. Waiting for so long. But finally — 

Maedhros looks down at Elrond. He smiles. He grasps Elrond’s hand — briefly, fiercely. 

“Thank you,” Maedhros says.

Then he lets go, draws in a steady breath, and returns to cooking.


End file.
